


Den of Decadence

by dappercat



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bosie being fucked by three different people, Exhibitionism, Gangbang, Group Sex, M/M, Nipple Licking, Opium, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Oscar being a timid top, Power Bottom Bosie, Unbeta'd, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-22 17:08:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12486632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dappercat/pseuds/dappercat
Summary: Men, scattered, inhaled deeply from the opium-pipes, lounging upon cushions with muted colours that matched the understated hues of the walls. Smoke, curling through the air, cast a washed-out screen upon everything and seemed to add an air of mystery to it all. Yet the slow and steady pace of these creatures condemned them to be forgettable in comparison to the other element that defined the contents of this house. Everywhere, in-between those men drunk on their poisons, were other men – men making love.Bosie invites Oscar to a 'den of decadence' - a sex house - and try as he might, Oscar simply can't resist the invitation.





	Den of Decadence

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, since they've been dead for a while, it's difficult to know how accurate my portrayals of their characters are, but this is how I *like* to imagine they are.

“What I don’t understand,” said Bosie, stretching out languidly on the patterned bedsheets, “is why it makes any difference at all whether we meet here or there.”

Oscar neglected to look up, hunched over at the nearby writing-desk, consumed by the scratch of his pen on paper. Finishing the tail-end of his sentence, he paused briefly to dip the nib in its inkwell, hearing the rustle of fabric as Bosie rose from the bed. “People chatter,” he replied, mournfully, continuing to stare at the scattered piles of paper in front of him. From behind him Bosie’s arms snuck around his neck, the younger man pressing down against his back with a sigh. “People chatter, and the last thing either of us need is the Marquess of Queensberry hearing through the grape-vine that I’ve been seen at a den of decadence.”

Bosie smiled, nuzzling into his lover’s neck. “Den of decadence? You can’t say it’s not tempting.”

“Tempting or not,” Oscar intoned gravely, “- and it is, you’re right, very tempting – it’s equally tempting to stay out of your father’s bad books. It won’t take a moment to bring him crashing down on my head, in case one of your hedonists sees fit to gossip. And you know your father.”

“Mmm. Yes, that I do.” Bosie hummed, a pleasant sound in Oscar’s ear. He withdrew his wandering hands from Oscar’s chest, and despite all his verbal confidence the writer looked up, eyes wide and seeking appeal. Bosie smiled, distantly; the smile of someone not quite convinced. “You’re saying, then, that you would not follow me into this den – that I’m free to wander within and without it, and you’d leave me to my business?”

Oscar groaned in quiet exasperation. “Bosie-“ He was silenced by the touch of a finger against his lips.

“My father will do what he will do, Oscar.” The youth’s face, previously so relaxed and sunny, had turned in an instant to a much darker expression. His half-lidded eyes traced the angles of Oscar’s face, a note of disappointment in his gaze. “I don’t see why you’re so scared of him. He’s loud, yes; aggressive, yes; but he has no power if you deny him stoutly what he claims to have heard. If he has not seen it himself, he cannot say that it surely happened. The man’s a bull, Oscar, and you need only step aside at the right moment to evade his horns.”

Oscar said nothing, the finger still lightly resting against his mouth.

His face relaxing once again into the flippant expression so appropriate for summertime, Bosie withdrew his finger, stepping back towards the bed. “In any case, I’m going. Whether you accompany me or not is no longer my concern.”

Oscar watched Bosie retrieve his coat from where it’d been slung over the windowsill, he himself held steadfast to his chair and a frown furrowing his brow. He knew Bosie well – too well to delude himself into believing that any concerns he voiced would persuade Bosie out of doing something he wanted to. Everything he had said was a half-hearted attempt into convincing himself not to follow, to play it safe where Bosie could not. It was a naïve hope that persisted no matter how often he’d loyally followed Bosie into danger, some sort of pious appeal to that part of his spirit that wasn’t, somehow, hopelessly in love. Though it made him hesitate, it was not a struggle often won by his rational side, and Oscar had an inkling of a feeling that a defeat would be oncoming before time ran out on this proposed date with the Devil.

Dressed, Bosie paused by the door, eyebrows finely arched in reproach. “I’ll see you to-morrow, then – or if not, Wednesday for tea.”

Oscar cleared his throat, attempting to summon confidence. “Yes, well, it shall probably be Wednesday. You can enjoy your careless disregard for your own safety, alone.”

A small huff left the youth’s lips. “You say that, Oscar,” he retorted, and left the room without another word, leaving Oscar to maintain his moral high ground alone.

\---

Credit where credit was due, it was a good half-hour after the seven o’clock meeting time Bosie had proposed, when Oscar’s will finally weakened. Staring, half-bored to tears, at the fire that burned in the living-room hearth, thoughts and fantasies danced around his head of how Bosie might currently be occupied. Constance, who sat beside him darning a hole in a sock, only looked up briefly when her husband stood to leave. “Off to see Lord Douglas, darling?”

He gave her a nod and a kiss. “I’ll be back before midnight, don’t wait for me.”

The ‘den of decadence’ was really a house in South Kensington that someone had employed as a hosting place for parties of his own devising. Rumoured to be bounties of sex and intoxicants, Bosie had been eager to attend one since first hearing of it, several days ago. Now, as Oscar drew up in front of it and paid the hansom driver, he regarded it with a curious eye.

It looked innocent enough. Although the lights were on in every window, each curtain was drawn, permitting no insight into its inner workings. As he approached the door, there was nothing to suggest that what lay inside was remotely of interest; in fact, he began to wonder if he had the right address after all. Yet, as he knocked on the door, it was opened a crack to allow a sliver of a face to peer through and register instant recognition.

“Mister Wilde!” The owner of the face revealed himself, pulling back the door mid-way – enough to block a proper view of the hallway to anyone who might be passing-by, but enough to allow the strong, heady scent of opium immediately drift through to Oscar’s nose. As he inhaled appreciatively, he was ushered in by the doorman, who explained himself as a fan of Oscar’s works.

Watching, over the doorman’s shoulder, two half-naked bodies writhing against one another on the stairs, Oscar paid little attention to what was being said to him. “Actually, my fellow, if you’d be so kind – I’m only here to find Lord Alfred Douglas.” He dragged his gaze away from the stairs and back to the doorman’s face. “I understand he’s here?”

After determining that, yes, Lord Douglas was here and was located upstairs in one of the bedrooms, Oscar dropped his coat with the doorman and advanced through the house. As he progressed, he found activity the likes of which could not have been expected from the doorway.

The intense scent of opium hung in the air, permeating his senses and lulling him into a calmer state, setting his mind almost adrift with thoughts of serenity. Men, scattered, inhaled deeply from the opium-pipes, lounging upon cushions with muted colours that matched the understated hues of the walls. Smoke, curling through the air, cast a washed-out screen upon everything and seemed to add an air of mystery to it all. Yet the slow and steady pace of these creatures condemned them to be forgettable in comparison to the other element that defined the contents of this house. Everywhere, in-between those men drunk on their poisons, were other men – men making love.

Or perhaps that wasn’t quite accurate, for there was little love being expressed in the clawing of skin, the curling of fingertips, the soft grunts and moans of animalistic passion. Larger men pounded mercilessly into smaller men, and sometimes the reverse was true, lustful partners burning anonymously together on the edges of tables and the corners of rooms. As Oscar walked slowly between them, moving from room to room and being presented with never-ending sights of unnatural pleasures, he felt an unwelcome voyeur, unnoticed though he was by people more consumed by their intimate acts. Even as he thought it, he felt his body harden in his trousers, an instinctive response to the sights and sounds of sex. Resolving to ignore it, Oscar pressed on.

His resolve did not last very long.

Finding at last the room that had been described to him by the doorman, Oscar hesitated. Putting his ear to the door, he could hear – almost imperceptibly – the sounds of moans and muffled conversation, though it was impossible to tell if any of it belonged to Bosie. For the first time, he realised he hadn’t considered the possible ramifications of arriving late; Bosie would not have waited for him. “Courage through thoughtlessness,” he murmured to himself, stopping that train of thought in its tracks. Inhaling deeply, he opened the door and stepped in.

It was not the largest bedroom of the house, and so there was little to draw attention away from the bed that took up most of the space. It took Oscar only a second to register the sight of Bosie, hair ruffled, chest pressed against the wrinkled bedsheets and arse in the air, filled full of cock by a man he’d never seen before.

There was a steady pace going on. The stranger – dark-haired, well-built, with exotic features that suggested Turkish ancestry – was pounding roughly into Bosie from behind, pulling high-pitched moans out of the youth with each slap of his balls. Bosie’s own prick had leaked precome onto the sheets below, and his face bore the desperate look of nearing climax that Oscar knew so well. As Oscar stared, both seemed to notice him at once, and Bosie broke into a smile.

“Oscar! You came!” His voice was breathy, his words stuttering as the stranger continued to thrust into him, seemingly unperturbed by Oscar’s arrival.

“Yes, I-“ Oscar paused as he noticed yet another stranger, this one with brunet hair, who had been sitting at the back of the room in the shadows, lazily touching himself. He scanned the room for more, but there seemed to be only two; Oscar’s mind began to run wild as he tried to process this information, envisioning Bosie entrapped between their bodies. “I- um, was tempted by the idea of a den of decadence after all,” he finished, only just managing to keep his mind on track. “Do you mind if I stay?”

“Mind!” Bosie echoed with a hint of throaty laughter. “Oscar, you absolutely _must_ stay; stay and watch, or join in, either’s goooood…” This last devolved into a low moan as Dark pulled out of him, and Oscar felt his breath catch in his throat at the sight of Bosie’s bared entrance. Hardly had he even thought it when Brunet came over to take Dark’s place, curling a strong fist around himself and guiding his cock into Bosie’s willing hole with a satisfied sigh. Then, without ceremony, he took up the pace that Dark had set, making Bosie groan deeply into the pillows.

Oscar could not tear his gaze away from what was happening, nor could he move from the spot, but the ache between his legs was growing more and more difficult to ignore. The sound of flesh on flesh, the sight of Bosie’s naked and vulnerable body, the look that he gave him as he tried to catch Oscar’s eye… Oscar sucked in a breath over his teeth, and began to undo the buttons of his trousers, each button coming free with another of Bosie’s desperate moans until finally he pulled his swollen prick free, ghosting a thumb over the head with a shiver. Sinking into a nearby chair, Oscar soothed his erection with the heat of his palm, biting back a curse as Brunet increased the speed of his rhythm and soon had Bosie crying an “oh!” of pleasure at every thrust.

It was easy – far too easy - for Oscar to match the pace of what he saw before him, his fingers smoothing the beads of fluid from head to base and curling around the hard flesh to tug at himself slickly. He watched Bosie press back against the onslaught, cheek rough against the bed and sweat dripping from the tip of his nose; his eyes, large pools of intensity, pinned Oscar to the chair. Oscar heard his own breaths come short and sharp in his ears, the wet sound of his own pleasure an added note in the melody of the room, and let out a low groan – of desperation, or longing, he didn’t dare think. All too quickly he could feel the heat building in his stomach, his hand losing the rhythm, and he had always been so pathetically short-fused when it came to Bosie, beautiful Bosie, wanton Bosie, tormentous Bosie.

“Don’t you dare,” Bosie whispered from his place on the bed, and his eyes brooked no argument, dangerous and daring, and Oscar squeezed the base of his prick with a strangled noise. “Not until I l-“

Bosie broke off, voice descending rapidly into a wet moan as he pressed his face into the muffling bedsheets, his cock jerking as it spewed ropes of hot come between his legs, and Oscar closed his eyes and thought of _a beautiful summer’s day, birds twittering innocently to one another and squirrels scampering between the trees, and his wife talking vapidly about nothing._ When it seemed he was no longer in danger of exploding with lust, he peered first one eye open and then the other, just in time to catch sight of the brunet man no longer buried to the hilt but bringing himself off with quick movements of his fist, sending his own climax in stripes over the pale skin of Bosie’s arse. Oscar let out a hopeless mewl.

Within moments, Bosie was sitting up as if he was barely fatigued, nothing but the rapid rise and fall of his chest to suggest that he’d been involved in any sort of physical exertion. Oscar lolled in his chair, drunk with the effort of holding back his climax, swimming in what could only be summarised as a bewildered incomprehension of Bosie’s beauty. He watched, dimly, as Bosie exchanged a murmured conversation with the Brunet, then felt, distantly, the warmth of their bodies as they passed him by on the way to the door. As they left, Bosie rose from the bed, approaching him with a delicate smile. As the youth settled on Oscar’s lap, smearing the remnants of another man’s pleasure into the fabric of his trousers, he made to say something. A warning, perhaps, that he wasn’t quite sure he could manage having Bosie so close by -  not in this state, certainly – but he was silenced with a finger on his lips, and Bosie’s other hand curved around his prick and gave it a squeeze of his own. Oscar jerked at the sensation - Bosie had been a little overenthusiastic in his application – but he tilted his head up to meet Bosie’s soft lips nonetheless.

They kissed, sweetly, and Bosie sighed softly into his mouth as he pulled away. Oscar looked earnestly into his face, prompting another smile, this time of affection. “Careful,” he admonished playfully, “Or your face will stick that way.”

“Stick which way?” Oscar questioned gently, nuzzling into the curve of Bosie’s collarbone.

“In the eternal expression of a lovesick fool.”

Oscar smiled weakly in return, then cleared his throat. “Bosie,” He rasped, “Did you, ah-“ His words were failing him. “Did you… invite those two young men to bed, because you were expecting me, or because you… weren’t expecting me?”

Laughter danced in Bosie’s eyes, and Oscar felt a flush of shame creep into his heart. “Do you mean, did I invite them to impress you, or did I invite them because I find you dissatisfying?” And it was a purr that curled around Bosie’s every word, but merely with the hint of good-natured teasing. Bosie shifted, suddenly, in his lap, and Oscar groaned at the friction of Bosie’s inner thigh against his cock. The chair croaked beneath them as Bosie leaned in closer, his mouth brushing up against the outer shell of Oscar’s ear. “I invited them,” he crooned softly, warm breath ghosting over Oscar’s skin, “so that I would be loose and ready for you when you arrived.”

Bosie’s hand was guiding Oscar’s wrist, now, around and behind the curve of his sweat-sheened body until Oscar felt his fingers brush against the sticky surface of his arse. There was nothing but obscene curses to come from him then as he realised Bosie’s intentions, pulling the youth closer against him and following the shape of the skin underneath his palm until he could sink one, two fingers into the slick heat of his lover’s waiting entrance.

Bosie let out a broken exhale, pushing back beautifully on the intrusion, and Oscar found himself gasping confused words against his chest, “I did not know what to think I could not share you never share you _oh Bosie_ you enrapture me, defeat me, define me, quite beautiful as the first sunrise in Eden oh God-d-“ and curling his fingers inwards and upwards, he watched Bosie arch backwards in pleasure, a new note in his cry and sweat tracking down his pale neck.

Oscar’s arousal burned hot and heavy between his legs, but as he reached for it his hand was slapped away. “Don’t you dare,” and Bosie was looking down at him with a wicked glint in his eye even as he grinded back onto Oscar’s hand. “Not until I let you.”

It was a decadent show then, befitting of their surroundings, the sinful deep reds of the bedsheets matching the crimson flush on Bosie’s neck as he rocked himself back and forth, seeking his pleasure from Oscar’s fingers. His head fell back, and his eyelids fell shut; those long, delicate eyelashes Oscar adored so much fluttering in ecstasy. The heat of him on Oscar’s skin brought his focus to a single point - a concentrated focus of heady filth centred around this one hand, his right hand, fingers slick with oils and semen inside Bosie’s arse. Oscar wished desperately to touch himself, to touch Bosie, to do anything but sit there in stillness, but he was commanded utterly by Bosie, and there was no fathoming anything beyond that command.

“You _are_ excited,” Bosie gasped in his rhythmic movement, back and forth, back and forth, “I can feel you against my leg.” Each turn he took to rock away from Oscar’s fingers, he rocked towards instead Oscar’s frustration, leaking hard for this display – Oscar did not think he could become any harder than he was, currently, though Bosie had a history of proving his assumptions fantastically inaccurate. Still he groaned at Bosie’s comment, as if the very commenting upon it made it feel more real, perhaps.

“-Will you beg me for it?” came Bosie’s lilting continuation, breathless. He ground back onto the fingers, hard. Oscar’s gaze followed the long lithe form of his body, from where Bosie’s prick was almost ready to stir again, to his perked rosy nipples, his red and panting mouth, and finally the sharp eyes that had now opened again to look at him. “Will you beg me to stick me with your cock, Oscar?” A gleam of some delight shone in Bosie’s eyes, and Oscar knew it for a triumphant rush of power – and Oscar knew as well that the power was well-placed, that he would bend to Bosie’s every will like this, and it was true, he was already whispering “Yes yes _yes yes_ , _Bosie_ ”.

His hips were bucking of their own accord, pushing his arousal urgently against Bosie’s thigh. “Please!” He sounded so pathetic like this, some dim part of his mind observed. So wheedling, so utterly consumed with gratitude and hope.

“Use your words,” Bosie purred, “ _writer._ ”

“Ah, ah-“ And Oscar had never been good at flowering words to impress Bosie, not like this, not on the spot; with a pen and a page and an hour and quiet he could write, yes, write to impress, but he stuttered and his words eluded him like this, when his prick was hard and it was taking all his willpower not to touch himself. “Please-“ Oh, by God up above, he was _embarrassing_ , “I want to- oh, Bosie- I want to fuck you, please.”

“Better,” he said, simply. A command.

Oscar scrabbled. “I want to- Oh, I want to bury myself in you, dear Bosie, _my_ Bosie-“

“All right,” Bosie said then, abruptly, cutting Oscar’s words where they died in his throat and he froze, hardly daring to hope. There was humour dancing in the young man’s eyes, and something else - something wicked. Something like a man who enjoyed very much watching Oscar prostrate himself for him, and Oscar knew, in his heart of hearts, that he could not bring himself to deny Bosie that joy.

Bosie reached behind himself, and Oscar moved his hand away at the lightest brush of Bosie’s fingers, taking the signal. He saw, or rather felt, Bosie spread the heated cheeks of his arse then, and shifting forward let the head of Oscar’s desperate cock rub against his slick and pre-fucked hole. A series of gasping noises overtook Oscar, shuddering worshipful sounds of arousal, and it took all his power not to come as Bosie sank down onto the thick length of his prick.

Bosie let out a sigh of satisfaction as he bottomed out, his head thrown back and the long elegant line of his throat flushed in the mood lighting of the room. Oscar felt an urge to taste it, to lap at the sweat beading on Bosie’s beautiful Adam’s apple, but it lingered out of reach, so he pressed instead his mouth to one of the rosy nipples on Bosie’s chest, and felt a sound of delight come from above him.

“ _Oscar_ ,” Bosie purred, and Oscar moaned against his skin at the sound of his name. Bosie lay his delicate fingers on Oscar’s shoulders, gripped tightly, and began to move.

The night would linger in his memory for some time to come; the sensation of Bosie’s tight heat around his prick, the slick sounds of his arousal slipping in and out, and the wanton moans coming from both of them. Time seemed to mean nothing, an abstract force that slipped away as grains of sand through fingers. It narrowed down to _this_ – Bosie’s pleasure, his own knot of orgasm he held back only through fear of disappointing Bosie. It was never like this with anyone else; no one else could enrapture him so, and send him spiralling to the very edge so quickly. He gazed on Bosie’s expression of ecstasy, heard his name dropped from those lips like a mantra – “ _Oscar, Oscar,_ “ – and knew he was in love.

“ _Now_ , Oscar,” Bosie was gasping, and Oscar let the knot untie itself, felt it wash over him like a wave as he shuddered and moaned and cried _Bosie oh my darling Bosie_ and came shuddering and spurting inside him.

It seemed eternal moments before a tired smile of satisfaction spread itself across Bosie’s lips, chest still heaving from exertion. His eyes found Oscar’s, half-lidded and dormant. “Was the temptation worthwhile, then, dear Oscar?” he murmured, tracing the line of Oscar’s jaw with a tender finger.

Oscar made to reply, but could manage only an- “Ah-“ –as Bosie stood and let the soft prick slip from his arse, followed by the trickle of white come. As he watched Bosie move away, stretching languidly and cat-like, he thought perhaps no answer was needed.


End file.
